


We're Making All the Noise, We're Making Teenage Sounds

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Inspired by Neon Trees, M/M, light smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The crowd erupts in cheers and Derek, through all thirteen songs, holds Stiles and rocks with Stiles and cheers with him and can safely say he’s never done anything quite as fun as that in a long, long time.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Making All the Noise, We're Making Teenage Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> So, this past Friday (07/28/12) I went to the Battleme/Penguin Prison/Neon Trees concert. I noticed they were also doing a show in Cali soon, so I smashed them together with Teen Wolf, and this happened.
> 
> Also, in case you missed it, this is an AU.
> 
> Enjoy~

Derek didn’t even want to go to this concert; the band was something he had only listened to a few times, he didn’t even know the two opening bands, and going to San Francisco made him itchy, tight in his veins and under his skin. He had to be the responsible one, especially if no one else who had come with him was going to. Laura had somehow charmed her way to the front, with the young man she’d charmed in line on her arm. His uncle, who by all means should not A) Know the band they’re seeing even though he does, nor should he B) Be hauling himself into the bar when he already promised to drive them home.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and leans against the wall, trying to stay as far from the mingling concert goers as possible. From the looks of it, there was still a good forty minutes until the opening band, Jjamz, took the stage. Not that Derek cared, because he was firm in his decision to stay on the sidelines for the entire show.

“Where’s the fun in that?” A voice suddenly beside him asks. Derek starts more than he’d care to admit, and he hates himself for the way he watches the kid’s lollipop—a round, bright red one—slip into his mouth for a moment before slipping out with a lewd pop. “It’s a concert, you’re supposed to get into the fray of blood, sweat, tears, and teenage hormones.” The kid looks him up and down appreciatively, bold and unreserved.

Derek feels compelled to do the same, which is how he finds his eyes locked on the kids legs—all on display, considering the fact that all the kid is wearing is a pair of hot pink short-shorts that lead into knee socks and Nikes.

“Eyes are up here, big guy.”

Derek blushes and wants to follow his uncle to the bar.

“But thanks,” the kid grin, all plump red lips that probably taste sticky sweet from the red lollipop. “I’m Stiles.”

“Derek.” He grinds out, heart fluttering in a totally reserved manly way when Stiles tilts his head to the side, cap falling further askew. They stay silent for a bit. “What’s with—?” He chokes and motions to the outfit instead.

“I go to concerts to dress up.” Stiles replies. “Plus, Lydia likes dressing me up like a Barbie or something so whatever. She buys my drinks for the night so that’s cool.”

Derek coughs awkwardly. “You can’t be twenty-one,” though it would certainly ease Derek’s guilt.

Stiles laughs. “No, unfortunately, I’m not. But Lydia is, which means that I’m pleasantly buzzed because there’s a bar down the road doesn’t care about checking Ids or checking which drinks go to which customer.” Stiles grins and licks his teeth.

Derek keeps himself in check when they fall silent again; he only allows himself to stare at Stiles’ chest—which is a white tank top slightly damp, and a bright green jacket sliding off one shoulder.

“Like what you see?” Stiles asks, the lollipop nothing more than the little white stick now.

“I—I can’t do this.” Derek says, but he doesn’t run like he meant to.

“I’m eighteen,” Stiles sounds mildly offended, “it’s actually my birthday today.” He grins and tilts his head again. “S’why we’re here.”

“I wouldn’t want to take away from the concert experience.”

Stiles laughs. “If you finish by the time Tyler comes on stage I’ll blow you right in the middle of the crowd.”

Derek doesn’t bother to try and resist the whimper that rises in his throat. He looks around, wildly, nerve ending on fire as Stiles takes him by the hand and leads him through the thriving crowd of people; they make it to the bathroom just as the light drops, and the band takes the stage.

Stiles laughs, curling his fingers in a wave at the security guard they pass; Derek is pretty sure there’s a strict rule on No Sex With Almost-Minors In Public Restrooms—either a venue rule or what should be his own personal rule—but when Stiles practically climbs him like a tree once they’re alone in a stall, Derek can’t really be bothered to care.

They kiss for at least three songs, until Derek’s own lips are bright red and kiss-stained. He tastes cherry on his tongue and Stiles grins at him with slightly less red lips. His arms are wound tight around Derek’s neck, and he has to kind of reach up on his tip toes to take control of the kiss, to properly lick his way into Derek’s mouth. Derek’s fingers flex and twitch and hold tight of Stiles’ hips, accidentally rucking up the tank top and pushing down his shorts to skin short nails over hip bones.

Stiles keens into the kiss. “Mm, ever do this before?”

“No.” Derek growls, a tendon in his neck straining as he contemplates shoving Stiles against the door instead to really get things moving.

“Neither have I,” Stiles says, an he bites Derek’s lips and sucks it lightly to keep him from responding. “But I like it.” Stiles laughs and Derek catches the end of footsteps high tailing it out of the bathroom. “Now, pick me up,” Stiles demands, and Derek just rolls into agreeing, unable to fight the pull of this ridiculous kid, who’s sexy and a little terrifying, and a lot overwhelming for someone like Derek who doesn’t really  _ever_  do this kind of thing.

Stiles’ knees press into the closed stall door, and Derek’s hands hold him up by the bottom of his thighs, fingertips just barely grazing the curve of his ass, slipping under the loose hems of the short-shorts. Stiles sighs into the kiss, a light sound and a soft sound that sinks into Derek’s mouth and makes his heart skip a beat.

His head is pounding from the base of the next band—Penguin Prison—who sound like they’re stuck in the 80’s in the best sort of way. His head is reeling because he’s got Stiles literally in his arms, Stiles who is strikingly attractive in a unique way, a different way that Derek isn’t accustomed to.

Stiles moves against him a certain way, then, when his head is lost swimming in the sensations. Stiles laughs and ruts again, harder. His intent is perfectly clear, hard and sliding up against Derek’s own clothes cock. He makes a noise, right in Derek’s ear, that’s part breathless laugh and part needy gasp.

“C’mon,” Stiles murmurs into his ear. Derek groans, his head slamming against the stall door as the last bit of restraint he prided himself in having ebbs away. Hands gripping Stiles’ thighs and ass, Derek rolls his hips up while helping Stiles down against him.

The shorts leave nothing to the imagination, and the heat and feel of Stiles’ dick is pretty obvious against his own jean, and Derek loves it. Stiles’ nails are digging into his shoulders and he doesn’t bother to keep his voice down in the bathroom. He moves down harder, voice dropping to a whisper, heady and hot and wet on his lips.

Derek catches a whisper,  _“gonna come,”_ before Stiles’ whole body freezes up for a second or two, then keeps moving, faster and uncoordinated and delightfully human and awkward and real. Derek grunts, choking on his own noises as he watches Stiles come undone in his arm, as he watches come stain the shorts. Derek groans and buries his face in Stiles’ neck and sucks a rough and bright purple-red hickey onto Stiles jugular as he comes.

Derek pulls back, his mouth coming off of Stiles’ skin with a lewd pop, and he pants for air. “Well,”

“Yeah,” Stiles grins and laughs, eyes closed for a second. “So,” he groans as he lowers himself to the ground. He stands there rubbing his knees, head precariously close to Derek’s crotch, as he prepares to leave. “So, Neon Trees should be out soon. Care to take the front with me?” Stiles holds out his hand again, and Derek doesn’t hesitate to take it.

Stiles drags them through people, muttering ‘excuse me, excuse me, fuck you, excuse me’ and Derek shoves someone out of the way by their face, causing a few other people to topple over. Eventually they’re pressed up against the fence that keeps the fans from crowding the stage. Another half hour passes then the lights drop again, and Stiles grins at Derek and takes his hand. The lights are dim as Tyler, all lightly sweaty tan and gorgeous smile and bleach blonde half-mohawk, takes the stage.

“ _Started in the morning, my head was getting hazy, couldn’t keep my feet on the ground.”_

The crowd erupts in cheers and Derek, through all thirteen songs, holds Stiles and rocks with Stiles and cheers with him and can safely say he’s never done anything quite as fun as that in a long, long time. And when, after the show, when Stiles is being beckoned by his friends, Derek tries to stifle his pleasure at the little scrap of paper with Stiles’ number on it that’s slipped into his hand, along with a kiss goodbye.


End file.
